“So what does that have to do with serving witches?” Lyric asks when Merle stops sharing secrets.
“All boys born to the immediate Lowell line are raised as fighters—protectors who go to take care of problems for covens or lone witches.”
Sounds like the sort of work hunters do, or so he assumes from what little Lyric has gleaned about hunters through the years. In passing conversations his uncles have had with Merle. Conversations they had when they thought Lyric wasn’t paying attention.
“Do the witches pay?” A wolf has to eat, after all.
“No,” Merle chuckles. “Their benefactors do—demons and devils and those who rule the night.”
Lyric shivers. “I thought that was all fake.” Despite being able to do things humans cannot, Lyric hasn’t ever bought into the notion that demons and witches are real. He’s never met one and in his young mind you have to see something to know that it’s real.
There has to be proof in more than an old legend.
“As real as you and I, son,” Merle pats him on the shoulder. A tired chuckle rasps out from between his chapped old lips.
“Pawpaw, how do you know all of this?” Lyric asks at length. When the silence becomes too loud and his curiosity grows too full.
“A long time ago, I was a wolf who served.” With a sad expression Merle murmurs, “One day, if we make it through this alright, I’ll tell you all about it.”
Lyric doesn’t call his grandfather out for the lie he senses. It’s bad enough knowing Merle doesn’t believe Tallulah is coming home.
I should’ve never Tweeted that guy. I could still be at home, hoping Betsy Jean would notice me while being bummed about not having any friends.
Instead, I’m in a nightmare worse than high school.
38
Tallulah
The first sight that greets Tallulah are eyes—the most vibrant shade of green she has ever seen. Eyes that cannot be human, and they crinkle as the man with an unusual scent smiles.
“How are you feeling?” He asks.
“Like I haven’t slept long enough,” Tallulah replies with a cough. Her throat feels as if someone has scrubbed the inside of her esophagus with steel wool.
“There will be time for sleep,” the man tells her with another gentle smile. His features are lovely, smooth and soft like someone in youth. “Thank you,” he says. He releases a deep chuckle after the words. A soothing sound that calls to the part of Tallulah that is rooted in darkness.
Obey.
A terrifying thought to have while staring at a stranger. “Sterling,” the man says, after a length of time in which he stares into Tallulah’s eyes. Climbing into her soul through her gaze. “Come collect Tallulah. You have a child to return to.”
In her mind she can hear this man’s voice. Assuaging her fears with a quiet command—be at ease, Tallulah Rose Grace.
A voice Tallulah knows only she can hear.
Suddenly, Sterling appears at her side. His comforting scent filling her lungs. A homecoming Tallulah needs after the hell she has lived. Was it weeks or months, she wonders, but doesn’t ask. In her heart, Tallulah knows she hasn’t been in this building long.
The truth makes her feel weak—a wolf fighting with milk teeth. Sterling’s arms feel safer than anything ever has, and her need for him fills Tallulah with further disappointment in herself.
As she’s being carried out—into a vehicle that smells of unknown wolves—Tallulah hears the man who woke her speaking to someone she cannot see. His tone lacks all the warmth he’d possessed with Tallulah.
“You.” It sounds of condemnation.
Tallulah shudders, leaning into Sterling’s solid chest as the van they are in rumbles to life.
“You’re safe,” Sterling murmurs when she comes to from the vividness of her dream. Tallulah’s body thrashing against the old seats. Screaming from a nightmare she’s only just escaped.
How long will I be safe?
“Until your father comes for me, or your brother? Or maybe your other bitch of a sister,” Tallulah asks as she shoves away from Sterling’s hold.
The van stops in a city she used to love, outside of a familiar safe house.
One Tallulah hasn’t stepped foot inside since her mother’s untimely demise. The death that sent them scurrying for Abita Springs when she was still little enough to find comfort in dolls.
Tallulah doesn’t wait for Sterling’s hand or his reply, she bounds out of the car. Rushing through the door of the home without care for what or who the wood of it bangs against.
Tallulah doesn’t bother to stop at Tanner’s shout.
She dashes up the stairs. Taking them two at a time, until she comes to a room where Lyric lies in a stranger’s bed. He’s resting—unharmed by this mess she helped create.
Tallulah sobs as she grips the doorjamb. Body turning to jelly as relief flows through her. There he is, her dark-haired angel, sleeping curled against a pillow. When she releases another sob, Lyric stirs.
He rubs his eyes while he turns her way, “Mama?”
Tallulah doesn’t ask permission as she hurries over, to hug Lyric against her chest. Breathing in the calming scent of his sleep rumpled hair.
I almost lost this. Tallulah thinks, clinging tighter to her son.
“Mom?” Lyric’s voice is more urgent. He’s awake, clutching his skinny arms around Tallulah’s waist. Lyric holds fast to her. He, too, must have feared that their last interaction had been the last. “I am so sorry, Mama.” He sobs into her chest, and Tallulah squeezes him tight.
“You don’t have to apologize,” she tells him with a cracked tone. Digging her fingers into Lyric’s cotton shirt.
“I don’t hate you,” Lyric’s voice rattles with the force of his emotions.
“I know, baby,” tears drip off of Tallulah’s long lashes—into Lyric’s hair. “I know, and it’s okay.”
How often had Tallulah told her own father she hated him? Back when Tallulah was young, wild, and stupid? Too often. And just as often had Merle forgiven her.
If Lyric hating her is her penance for those bad years, then Tallulah will gladly serve the punishment for her old crimes. So long as she can live to see her child through the bad years that they will weather as mother and son.
“I didn’t mean it,” Lyric reiterates, pulling away from her to wipe his nose.
“I know,” she tells him again. Cupping Lyric’s cheek, Tallulah says, “I’m so glad you’re safe.” She doesn’t tell him how Tallulah would see Hells destroyed for Lyric if she had come home to him hurt.
Or worse, dead.
Life isn’t worth living without Lyric Grace breathing.
“Sterling got me to safety,” his grin is fragile. “Like you told him to.”
At least he managed that much, Tallulah thinks but never allows the words to fall off of her tongue. She just draws her son close to her again, to breath in his scent. Committing him to memory.
A memory Tallulah will never go.
“What now?” Lyric asks her when their world lapses into silence.
“What now?” Tallulah echoes, without an answer.
39
Merle
The Lowell boys drive them back home to Abita Springs.
Merle finds it strange to come back to a place that has served as a haven for so long. One that easily turned into a hell in such a short span of time.
Beaufort’s home stands as a reminder of the stain of this place. Merle scowls at the light that flickers on the Savages’ porch. There’s an eerie deception to the cozy exterior of Beaufort and Vivian Mae’s house. In a home, that appears as inviting as all the other little homes of this town, lives a monster. One who is all too willing to end his own blood for the crime of existing.
An unpleasant truth that makes Merle ill at ease. A feeling his sons share. Or so it seems when the van fills with the spicy scent of rage.
An anger that rolls off of Tanner and Judson in burning waves.
B
oth of his sons ride in to town first with Merle—to act as defense—along with Colt and Remington. All of them on edge wondering if this will be a battle more than a homecoming.
There’s always a chance that bastard Beaufort will get ideas.
Fortunately, they find that their home is undisturbed. Beaufort sequestered in his own house, Merle assumes, and things feel quiet.
Too quiet for comfort, but better than anticipated.
Across the street blinds are pulled and Merle frowns.
“There’ll be trouble,” Remington tells him when he too glances across the street. “Do you want us to stay around for a few days?”
“I shouldn’t keep you from work, but it’d put my mind at ease.” Merle admits, hating that he’s grown so weak in his own retirement from the Service of The Morning Star.
“I’d feel better if we stayed. There’s not a pressing job after this one,” Remington informs him.
Already a leader who will serve his future queen well.
“Colt,” Remington calls to his younger brother. The one who stands a few paces behind him. “Grab the bags, we’re staying for a bit.”
Colt quirks a pale eyebrow, but doesn’t disagree. Grabbing the bags from the back of the van he heads up the front porch. Easily letting himself into the house despite not having a key.
Merle chuckles about that, amused that the young pups are still learning the skills he remembers being taught. Somethings never change.
“Sterling, Tallulah, and Lyric are still an hour out. Apparently, they pulled over to have a shouting match.” Judson informs, as he walks towards where Merle and Remington stand in the yard. Glancing down at his phone as his boots crunch on the gravel. Judson wears a private smile when another text sounds, but he doesn’t care to share about that one.
Merle has an inkling that it’s Miss Jorie, and that is a problem for another day he decides.
“Lyric says there’s a weird vibe in the car now.” Judson says while he places his phone in his back pocket.
Tanner snorts, tossing a duffle on the ground by Judson’s dusty boots, “Can’t imagine Tallulah’s happy with Sterling after his family kidnapped her.”
“You know that’s not his fault,” Merle tells his son with a pointed glance.
Sterling coming back to the safe house with Tallulah and Lyric wasn’t something Merle anticipated happening. A horrible, private part of him had hoped Sterling would die in the fray. A hope that was dashed as soon as he followed Tallulah back inside the New Orleans safe house.
No, Sterling Savage is here to stay.
Or so it seems to Merle, and it’s a fate he’s trying to resign Tanner to. No one hates Sterling as much as Tanner Grace, but Merle’s son is going to have to learn to deal with the Savage who fathered Lyric.
“Isn’t it though?” Tanner challenges with his tone, crossing his arms at Merle. “If he’d have stayed the hell away we wouldn’t be dealin’ with this mess. It ain’t like we can stay here, Merle. We’re gonna have to move else we’re gonna be lookin’ over our shoulders for the rest of our damned lives. Waitin’ on that bastard Beaufort to drop the axe.”
Merle turns to look across the street, he knows his son is right. Abita Springs has been their home for so many years that he hates the thought of leaving.
You’ve been a comfortable wolf for too long, Merle tells himself.
“Lula loves it here,” he says to fill the tense silence.
“We all do, Merle,” Tanner replies. For the first time in days he’s not speaking with a tone full or rage. “That’ll be another thing Sterling steals from us.”
40
Jorie
Memphis won’t take payment for filling in for Jorie during her sudden absence.
“Family don’t gotta pay, chérie.” He winks.
Filling Jorie with overwhelming gratitude. Belonging to this small circle of good people is a comfort she has longed for—her own kin unreliable and unloving—and she’s still not quite sure if she deserves the loyalty.
“Get back to slingin’ them drinks, Miss Jorie,” Memphis tells her. “Ol’ Billy Byers didn’t like my lack of breasts. Bitched somethin’ awful about it the whole time you was gone.”
She rolls her eyes, “I’m not surprised. Shoulda got your mama down here to pour his whiskey.”
“And risk her chastity?” Memphis feigns horror at the notion. Hand dramatically pressing against his chest as his dark eyes grow wide.
A second later he’s winking at Jorie causing her to smile again.
“Get on home, Memphis. Come on back when you want to collect your free Maker’s.”
“Honey, you’re talkin’ my language now,” Memphis pats her gently on the shoulder. A caress that is familial and not the disgusting crawl of an unwanted man’s touch. “I’ll come have a drink with ya soon.”
As he opens the door to the bar a frown steals his smile.
Curious, Jorie peers around his large frame. Trying to see what could rob the joy from a man as happy as Memphis Boone.
Out in the gravel lot Beaufort Savage’s pickup idles. The sight of that old Chevy causes Jorie’s heart to trip up in an anxious rhythm.
“Why’s he here?” She knows Memphis won’t have the answer, but even still the question stumbles off of her tongue.
“He ain’t here for anythin’ good,” Memphis mutters with a grim tone. “Stay here. Call Judson if things get ugly, ya hear?”
Before Jorie can stop Memphis he’s heading into the lot, calling out with a friendly wave to most terrifying man Jorie has ever known.
“Lord help us.”
Her heart stutters worse than before as Sterling’s old Nova comes skidding into the lot. Slinging gravel from how fast he’s whipped in.
From her vantage point, Jorie can see that Sterling and Tallulah are arguing. So wrapped up in their pissing contest that both are woefully unaware of the danger lurking in this parking lot.
Tallulah slams out of the car, yelling for Lyric to follow her inside. Sterling must be pleading because she screams, “Fuck off, Sterling! I’m not havin’ this conversation with you right now. I want to see my friend and go to work.”
Jorie knows the instant Tallulah spots Beaufort.
She goes still, rooted to the ground while her eyes widen as if she’s just seen the devil himself.
Too bad for Tallulah, Beaufort Savage is worse than the devil.
41
Sterling
“Tallulah,” Sterling shouts after her retreating form.
Lyric scrambles out of the backseat after her, while he throws a hasty apology over his thin shoulder at Sterling. Their ride was explosive and tense for only being an hour and a half—full of arguments Tallulah’s been stewing over for years.
Sterling tried to placate her as much as he could, but that went over about as well as baptizing a cat.
Thumping his steering wheel with his thumbs, Sterling throws his head back against the hard headrest. Sterling’s so annoyed at life that it takes him a moment to realize Beaufort is standing a yard or so away from his car.
Memphis, crazy fool, calls out to Beaufort with his palms held wide in a non-threatening gesture. However, Beaufort puts one of his tan hands on the grip of his pistol. Sterling’s father isn’t here to talk—that much is clear.
“Shit.” Sterling nearly falls in his haste to get out of the low car.
“You should’ve stayed gone, bitch,” Beaufort snarls. From his holster he pulls out his favorite Smith and Wesson.
Tallulah stops cold, all color draining from her pale-gold skin.
Lyric, brave little man that he is, steps in front of his beloved mother. His skinny legs tremble, and Sterling can see Lyric’s jaw move from the way his teeth clatter with fear.
Braver than me for sure.
Beaufort chuckles, “Move, boy, I’ll deal with you in due time.”
Lyric squares his thin shoulders, “No.” He swallows the break in his voice before he continues, “Nobody hurts my
mama while I’m still breathin’.”
Damned if Tanner Grace wouldn’t be proud of his nephew in this moment.
“Quiet, Lyric,” Tallulah pleads as she tries to get in front him. Lyric does his best to keep her behind his thin body. “Go, baby, please.” She begs her son—their son—and Sterling’s locked knees begin to work.
With courage he doesn’t normally posses, Sterling strides forward. His voice a deep boom as he shouts, “Beaufort Savage, lower that gun.”
Hateful blue eyes turn his way—in them Sterling can see his father’s every regret regarding him.
I’ll always be a disappointment.
So many memories barrel through Sterling. Things he’s spent years burying beneath whiskey and faceless women as he ran from these familiar roads. Paths he was never able to escape.
At five, Sterling got a beating for not being able to outrun the black and tan they had back then—before Birdie got ahold of the poor bastard. At seven, Sterling received a dressing down because a girl had beaten him in a fight. Never mind that Birdie was a head taller and years older than him at the time. Sterling can still hear his father’s constant berating, labelling him a cunt-less female. Something his father called him relentlessly when they came back from a hunt the summer Sterling was thirteen—no bigger than Lyric is now—and he hadn’t been able to kill the wolf who whimpered at his feet. That had been the crowning moment of his father’s disappointment in him.
“Should’ve never fucked your mother full of you,” Beaufort had shaken his head and wandered away. That time Sterling wasn’t even worth a beating by his father’s own hand. Beaufort left that particular beating to Beau.
“I’ve wanted an excuse to kill you for a long time, Sterling,” Beaufort tells him now. The words still manage to sting despite Sterling having expected them.
“Well, Dad, here I am,” he says with a flat laugh. Sterling’s arms held wide to show Beaufort he’s ready to die. “Go ahead, I’m done.”
The Grace of a Savage Page 15
